


A House of Straw and Wood

by axilet



Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Canon - Video Game, Christmas fic, Family, Gen, Pre-Canon, Wutai
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2012-12-05
Packaged: 2017-11-20 09:13:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/583698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/axilet/pseuds/axilet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They defeated Wutai in time for Christmas, and thus there was much rejoicing. Unless, obviously, you were Wutaiese, and a bratty rebellious ninja princess to boot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A House of Straw and Wood

They defeated Wutai in time for Christmas, and thus there was much rejoicing in Midgar, accompanied with twinkly lights and copious consumption of alcohol. Most of it took place in the Shinra HQ, where things like the business of surviving from day to day paled against, well, business as usual. Ordinary citizens, if you asked, would have said something to the effect of Shinra already owning most of the known world, what was one little piece more? It was, however, a lot and plenty more to President Shinra, and his cronies on the company board; these were men to whom squabbling for wealth and power had become an integral part of existence, never mind their overflowing coffers and fearful nods from the little people. These were men who would empty buffet tables and leave behind plates heaped high with wasted food; men who would grab just for the chance to gloat and say  _I owned it._

These were men who  _did not know how to stop._

And so, with Wutai won and glittering among Shinra's pile of discarded treasure, the President, his initial euphoria already fading, was already turning his eyes to the Promised Land—dreaming of a legend, when all else of value had been conquered.

 

* * *

 There too was rejoicing in Wutai, though what there was of it was mostly composed of men thanking God and what other powers that were—best to be safe— that they were still alive, and more importantly possessed of enough internal organs left to get roaringly drunk and forgetful. Everywhere, hastily constructed inns burst with light and activity and various tawdrily clad females of a certain persuasion.

The air rang with laughter and cheaply sentimental ballads—and also with silence: a thick, watchful silence that swam beneath the noise and merriment like water under oil. The conquerors screamed and shouted, and outside the blazing windows the conquered moved swiftly and quietly, as good as oiled automatons; bodies folded up small, to better slide under the stern gazes of the soldiers unlucky enough to be slapped with duty and hence the curse of sobriety. As the season of sharing dictated, they were determined to spread their resentment around. Already a few unfortunate men and women had been locked up and charged with crimes various and sundry, ranging from loitering to gathering with intent to cause revolt, depending on the mood of the officers concerned. And thus there were no funereal dirges, no proud retelling of the fallen warrior's noble deeds, to compete with the cries of the merrymakers. But they all mourned in their own ways: there were some who spent the night facing towards the distant mountains of Da Chao, praying for retribution; others who smashed their altars and wept like children for something irretrievably lost; those who quietly slit their own wrists and waited until their shame was uncovered by the bright light of day.

There were those who waited for a sign. A storm, sent by Leviathan, to flood the capital. An earthquake. The splitting open of the Da Chao mountains, and the release of the fires that lived within.

Whatever that sign was, it would not be forthcoming from the ruling family of Wutai. In a concession that was either kind or cruel depending on how you looked at it, Godo Kisaragi ostensibly still had authority over Wutai and any important decisions regarding its future. He simply had to consult President Shinra first. With a slow and shaking hand Lord Godo signed away his freedom and self-respect, all in return for the mean but all-essential gift of survival.

For too long Godo had spoken of glory and honor and the blessings of the gods, inspiring his people to ever greater heights of fervor and deeds of courage. When the first messenger from Shinra had come, Godo had laughed in his face and thrown him into the dungeons. Just a few months later he was a broken man, scrabbling for just slightly less crippling terms, just so that his people could live, somehow. "We cannot live without honor"—how ridiculous! Nor could most people live without food or shelter or, indeed, whole limbs. He had staked his pride on victory and lost it to the white-haired demon of the foreign army, and now all he could do was to rebuild. And for that, he needed Shinra money—whatever he could get, he was pathetically grateful for.

Unfortunately, he had been a pretty good orator, back when he had the confidence to back his words out. The people of Wutai had bought into everything and sworn to given their lives for Wutai. Many of them had fulfilled their vow and lay cooling and rotting in shallow graves. What an awful waste.

His daughter was one of those who believed. She was only nine years old, but had somehow learned all the buzzwords—most likely eavesdropping on meetings she had no right to be listening to. She was a good Wutaiese girl, full of fire and energy, the very image of her mother. (Kasumi had died from an illness years ago, but not without a good deal of fighting and cursing first.) But she proved a poor hostage. She was forever sneaking out of the compound to practice throwing her shuriken, stealing valuables, and scribbling obscene messages on Shinra guardposts. Godo lived in nervous dread of the day when she would be brought before him and justice demanded.

He expressed as much to her. She only laughed, as he had done himself at Shinra in his unimaginable arrogance, long ago in the long ago past.

She was young. She would learn.

 

* * *

They caught her one day—a young Turk, off duty, and mockingly polite. He called her  _Princess_ and  _little girl_ together in the same breath, with that kindly, weighty condescension that had turned her father's title into a burden as heavy as a lump of lead. He was on holiday, he explained, so he wouldn't string her up by the legs as she so rightfully deserved, and instead he would escort her back home to her loving father, and maybe drop a few pointed hints in the process.

Little girls, he said, ought to be given a second chance.

At first she thought that was it, the storm blown over; the shame and humiliation punishment enough. But it soon became clear what form Shinra intended the second chance to take.

The  _gaijin_ moved in, slowly at first, then enough so that Yuffie couldn't look out of her window without seeing the shine of a blond head and bright flashy clothes that hurt the eyes. To her horror they posed for photographs before the Pagoda of the Five Gods, and climbed the Mountain where only the people of Leviathan should tread. They came into her father's house, poking and prodding, where before the Imperial Guards would have spitted such curiosity seekers on stakes and left them in the city square as an example. Carts selling cheap miniatures of Leviathan and the Pagoda sprout like mushrooms around the city. Through it all Yuffie moved like a ghost, just another defeated Wutaian without her silks and jewels, amazed that Leviathan had not yet drowned the city in storms at this insult.

This travesty, she later learned, was called, "tourism".

And the Shinra Tourism Board wanted her cooperation. More and more visitors were flocking to the fair city of Wutai, they said, anxious to partake of the rich cultural tradition here.  _Of course_ it helped (ho ho ho) if there was something  _familiar_ they could latch on to, say, Christmas—just with an exotic twist, a blend of east and west. Imagine if the  _Lord of Wutai_ and his _daughter_ could help preside over the festivities! There would be a huge (and profitable) turnout, most certainly.

And, the representative of the STB added, with a huge limpid smile that looked incongruous together with the hard look in his eyes, it was a  _personal_ request from the home government, and of course Lord Godo would want to cooperate, wouldn't he. What a pity, if the season of peace, goodwill towards man etc. would be somehow  _marred_ by...unpleasantness.

(Yuffie did not say yes. Her father squeezed her shoulder so tightly that she did not, however, say no.)

 

* * *

She stood beside a huge pine tree, festooned with shining glass baubles that reminded her painfully of Materia. Wutai used to be rich with Materia, so much so that even the poorest peasants could wear Materia around their necks for good luck and artisans could carve cunning little statues out of it. Technically, Wutai  _was_ still rich in Materia, only now her wealth no longer belonged to her people, but to the invaders from far away, blessed with their own vast territory and yet hungry for more. Yuffie bit her lip and remembered how it had felt to hold the manifestation of the Planet's power in her hand—the surface deceptively smooth and glossy, pulsing with the beat of the Planet's heart.

When Shinra had banned the use of Materia, they had struck right at the heart and soul of Wutai.

Her father had held the Leviathan Materia in his keeping, as was traditional for the ruling lord. She had not laid eyes on it since the day of the surrender. She wouldn't be surprised, she thought bitterly, if her father had handed it over too. He had certainly handed over everything else.

But even so—what had she done? Nicking gil, planting smoke bombs and other "surprises" in the guardhouses—kid's stuff, petty annoyances, that irritated more than hurt. She had heard that stupid mantra from her father so many times, too many times: "You are young. You will learn." It was such a shock to realize that he might have been right, if only a little.

She had prided herself on having done  _something, anything_ for her country, unlike her cowardly old man. But it had in the end amounted to nothing. Shinra continued to grind on like the greedy, hulking machine it was, with nary a thought for those poor souls caught in the cogs. Her people were still enslaved. Things hadn't changed, not an iota; and for that she had put herself and her father in danger.

At least, she thought, if she were to be executed, let it be for something _big_.

Her back itched. She was wearing her grandest kimono and felt both hot and ridiculous. The hall was crowded and the heat and noise pressed up against her like physical manifestations of everything that was wrong with Wutai. She wanted to scratch. She wanted to shred the expensive and heavy silk and drop everything as a snake might leave behind its shed skin and just run. _Just stay there and smile,_ the Shinra employee had advised. In other words: Be a good girl, play your role, and the wolves won't eat you.

Screw that. Something big? Why not? Why the hell not?

She had helped her father open the ceremony. He had been so relieved, she had almost felt guilty. She had danced the Rain Dance dedicated to Leviathan, chanted the appropriately mystical-sounding incantations, and got an appreciative round of applause for her trouble. But that hadn't been all she had been trained for. She could bury her shuriken in its intended target at several dozen feet, hide in shadows and stab unsuspecting men in their backs. (Or the backs of straw men, at any rate.) She was a  _ninja,_ for Leviathan's sake. Simpering and nodding and dancing...even her childhood antics...it was an utter betrayal of her warrior's roots.

Yuffie Kisaragi walked out, or rather shuffled quickly, out of the grand hall. She felt for the knife thrust into the layers of silk, and smiled as she fit her hand around the hilt. Look out, world _,_ she thought.

_It's...the Great Ninja Yuffie!_

Later on, all the pine trees in the city center were found burned down into neat little heaps of ashes, and a Shinra guard woke up from a rather unexpected coma, and could only babble to his superior that he had been attacked by shadows...surprisingly corporeal shadows, as proven by the empty Materia slots in his weapon.

And a mile away Yuffie sped across the blue ocean, tucked away in the cargo hold and idly bouncing her newest acquisitions up and down in her palm. Materia...the heart and soul of Wutai. She had just two now. But if she could somehow collect,  _arrite, steal,_ more and more, she'd have real power at last. (Here she remembered the feeling of the flames in her hands and shivered in delight.) More than a little girl, more than a princess in name.

Yuffie closed her eyes, and dreamed.

_-end_

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted on 25/12/09.


End file.
